Mrs. Perfect

“They’re going through a hard time. Just look at her, Taylor. She’s obviously very lonely.”

“I know, but I’m tired, Nathan, and you and I need some alone time. We need to destress, and having Lucy over isn’t going to destress me at all.”

“This isn’t about your mom, is it?” he asks, a deep furrow creasing his brow. “Because this is completely different. Your mom ran off—”

“Nathan.” I cut him short, shoot a swift side glance at the others, but they’ve segued from the annual brunch to discussing Tuesday’s Welcome Coffee at the school. I lift the tote bag, sling it over my shoulder. “Okay, yes, I’m concerned about having Lucy and the kids over. I’m concerned about the fallout for our kids. If there’s going to be sides drawn, I’m not sure we should be taking Lucy’s—”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous.” My voice trembles, and I find myself clenching my hands. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be rejected by everyone. I do. I have. And I won’t allow that for my children. “I’m protecting our girls.”

“You’re overprotective, Taylor.”

“The house isn’t even clean—”

“It’s spotless. It’s always spotless.”

“There are dishes in the sink and toys scattered on the lawn.”

“I guarantee Lucy and the kids won’t notice.” His tone softens. “Taylor, honey, they need us. Look at them.”

Reluctantly, I glance past him to where Lucy is corralling her kids, her arms wrapped around the shoulders of her twins, her head bent as she talks to them. She seems to be having quite the heart-to-heart with them. She’s always been a good mom. It would be tragic if she lost the kids.

“Fine . . .” I sigh. “We’ll all have dinner.”

The Points Country Club is only a mile or so from our home in the tiny town of Yarrow Point. Yarrow Point is just that, too, a point of land that juts into Lake Washington with loads of low waterfront footage. You pay to be on the water, though. I honestly don’t think you can get a house on the water for less than four million right now. I could be wrong, but I think even that price is low.

After taking a left off 92nd Avenue NE, I turn down our small lane that dead-ends in front of our house, a big sprawling shingle house highlighted by glossy white paint, true divided light windows, a steep shingled roof, and long-columned covered porches.

Every time I pull up, I feel a stab of pride and possession. I love my house. I helped create this house. I was part of the design process—indeed, much of the design was my ideas and my pictures and drawings. During the eighteen months it took to build the house, I was on the job site nearly every day, checking on the progress, talking to the contractor, discussing details with the head carpenter. I loved every aspect of building the house, from the muddy lot in the Seattle December rain, to the immense framing stage, to walking through the space with the electrician, placing each of the outlets.

I was there when they poured the concrete and there the morning the drywalling began and again for the finish painting. It’s hard not to fall in love with a house when it’s not just a house but a part of you.

But it’s not just the house I love. Everything is magical here—the garden and rose-covered trellises, the huge lawn that rolls right to the water with the sandy beach, private dock, and darling boathouse.

As I turn off the engine, the girls fling open their car doors and spill out in a flurry of terrycloth towels and bright sundresses, their sandals falling out and slapping the ground.

“Take everything to the laundry room,” I tell the girls as I dash inside. “Don’t leave one towel in the car. Everything goes in the laundry basket.”

While the girls strip off their wet suits in the laundry room—a room that Patti once said was bigger than most people’s living rooms—I get the miscellaneous dishes from the sink into the dishwasher, the white Carrara marble counters wiped off, and some of the pink roses from the garden in a vase of water before Lucy and her children arrive.

“How gorgeous,” Lucy says, spotting my arrangement of lush roses on the counter. Keys still clutched in her palm, she bends to sniff them. She lifts her head, clearly disappointed. “No smell.”

“No, they’re not fragrant, but they look beautiful and they’re far more disease-resistant than the older varieties.”

Lucy gives the roses one more disappointed sniff. “Disease-resistant is important, especially in the Pacific Northwest with all of our black spot and mildew, but a rose just isn’t a rose without its spicy scent.”

Inexplicably annoyed with Lucy, I yank open the refrigerator with more force than necessary, rattling the jars in the door. “Would you like something to drink?”

She stares at me. “Are you drinking?”

From one of the many kitchen windows, I can see Nathan cross the back patio to light the barbecue. “I’ll probably have a glass of wine.”

“Wine sounds perfect.”

“White or red?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

“Lucy, we have both.” My irritation shows, and her expression crumples. I don’t know who I dislike more right now—her or me. Taking a deep breath, I try again. “We’re hopeless wine snobs, Luce, you know that. I have loads of wine, and I’m happy to open a bottle of red or white. Just tell me what you want—”

“Red.” Her cheeks are a dark, dusty pink.

God, I hate myself. I’m such a bitch, and I don’t want to be. I don’t mean to be. My patience isn’t what it once was. Maybe it’s the long summer with the kids out of school. Maybe it’s the start-up of the auction meetings. Maybe it’s the tension I’ve begun to notice between Nathan and me. Nathan sometimes seems like a stranger. We used to agree on everything. Lately, we agree on almost nothing. Maybe that’s marriage. Maybe that’s life. Maybe he and I just need to get away for a few days and spend some real time together. “Shiraz, Merlot, Cab?”

“Shiraz or Merlot,” Lucy answers quickly. “I love both.”

I open an Australian Shiraz that Nathan favors. I pour three glasses, hand Lucy one, and pick up the other two. Lucy follows me outside.

I carry a glass of wine to Nathan. “You’ll like this,” I say, simultaneously giving him the glass and a kiss. We’re good, I tell myself as he kisses me back. We’re fine. No one agrees all the time. People have different points of view. Life’s bound to have ups and downs.

“I have some groceries in the car,” he says, taking a sip from his glass before putting the goblet on a table near the barbecue. “You girls relax. I’ve got dinner under control.”

He heads for the garage to get the groceries he picked up on the way home. Lucy watches him go. “You’re lucky,” she says wistfully as he disappears into the garage.

“Because Nathan grocery shops?”

“Because he obviously still adores you.”

I don’t know what to say, because I am lucky. I’ve always been the first to admit it. I knew when I met Nathan that big things would happen. I saw right away that he had the potential for something big and knew it was my job to bring it out in him. It’s not that I didn’t believe in me. I just realized my skills would be best put to use supporting him. To drawing out his potential and helping however I could best help, whether it’s opening doors or keeping them open.

Good wives are a tremendous asset.

You shouldn’t ever underestimate the power a good wife brings to not just marriage, but careers and life in general.

When I look at couples who’ve divorced, you see what they’ve lost. Not just materially, but socially. Their bank account has taken a hit, but more important, so has their clout and respect.

Which brings me back to Lucy, but Lucy’s turned to face Lake Washington, the Seattle skyline, and the Olympic mountain range. During summer, the sun sets on the far right corner of the mountain range, giving us the most amazing red-and-hot-pink sunsets on the lake.

“It’s beautiful here in summer, isn’t it?” she says on

a sigh.

“My favorite time of the year.”

She nods agreement. “I always wanted to be on the water. And you have such a nice dock, too. Perfect for your boat.”

“It does make it convenient,” I agree, lifting a hand to shade my eyes. The boat is Nathan’s toy. He likes to go out on the lake a few times a week during the summer, just cruise around with a great bottle of wine. He doesn’t go out in the boat as much as he used to, though. In fact, lately he’s started to talk about selling the boat, something I don’t understand, as Nathan loves boating almost as much as he loves golfing.

Turning, I catch Lucy watching Nathan through the kitchen window where he’s standing at the sink, rinsing something. Lucy’s expression is wistful. So wistful that for a moment I wonder if it’s Nathan she’s been sleeping with.

Immediately I push the horrifying thought out of my head. Don’t want to think like that. Can’t think like that. Nathan wouldn’t have an affair. He just wouldn’t. I know him too well.

“Let’s see what the kids are doing,” I say, injecting cheer into my voice as I lead Lucy into the house and up the curving staircase in the hall.

The hour before dinner passes, and then we’re all sitting at the table on the terrace, enjoying our meal beneath strings of twinkly lights. After dessert, the kids dash off, disappearing upstairs into the big bonus room again. Nathan lingers for a bit before excusing himself, leaving just Lucy and me at the table.

It’s a quiet night on the lake, and silence envelops the table. I get the sense that Lucy wants to open up, have a real talk, but I won’t let it happen. I’m sure Lucy’s confused and fearful and probably in some pain, but it’s not something I can deal with. My mother’s affair destroyed our family and killed the relationship I had with her.

“You’re angry with me,” Lucy says in a small voice, her words so faint that they’re nearly swallowed by the night.

I open my mouth to disagree but end up saying nothing.

“It wasn’t what Peter’s telling everyone. There wasn’t this big affair. It was one night. One mistake. A terrible mistake.”

It feels as though she’s dragging her fingernails down a chalkboard. My skin crawls. I want to get up, walk away. “What were you thinking?”

For a moment, I don’t think she’s going to answer, and then she whispers, “I thought he loved me.”

I’m silent, my throat thick, my chest aching.

“I just wanted to be loved again,” she adds even more softly.

“Now you’ve lost everything,” I blurt out.

“Hopefully not my friends.”

“Hopefully,” I echo after a moment.

She nods and a minute later plants her hands on the tablecloth and pushes to her feet. “It’s late. I should get the kids home and into bed.”